An Expedient Ending
by Proseac
Summary: Something's happened in Tony DiNozzo's bed. Something unexpected. Or not. You decide. Tony/EJ. Crack!Fic. WARNING: Character Death.


GENRE: Crack!Fic  
>SUMMARY: <em>Something's happened in Tony DiNozzo's bed. Something unexpected. Or not. You decide.<em>  
>RATING: T for subject matter<br>WARNINGS: Spoilers for Season 8. **Character Death.**

DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Just having a bit of fun. I won't get rich doing this. Trust me.

A/N: Thank you to Zaedah and SnoopMaryMar for inspiring me to write this little bit of fluff, and to Alidiabin and KYTIVAFAN for egging me on. **It's all your fault.**

* * *

><p>Tony stands on the front step of his apartment building, in sweat pants and a muscle shirt, watching the ambulance pull away. The sirens are eerily absent, although the red and white lights still flicker ominously in the cool darkness of the night. There is no urgency to arrive at their destination. Their patient was dead before the paramedics even arrived on-scene.<p>

Anaphylactic shock, they said.

Tony answers a barrage of questions posed by the local LEOs. He is calm. His answers make perfect sense, and he does not appear upset or embarrassed in the slightest. They consider this odd at first, but once he produces his NCIS credentials for their examination, they deem it logical that he would not flinch in the face of death, even a death that occurred in his own bed.

Satisfied that this was simply a tragic accident, they head back to the precinct.

Tony ignores his neighbours' intrusive questioning and returns to his apartment in silence. He pours himself a cup of coffee, freshly made not thirty minutes ago as he patiently awaited the paramedics' arrival. His hand does not shake as he lifts the mug to his lips. For one fleeting moment, he wonders if he should call Gibbs, then thinks better of it.

He's pretty sure this isn't the way the Boss intended for him to break it off.

* * *

><p>Tony doesn't like being alone. And he <em>really<em> doesn't like the fact that Ziva thinks of him as a brother. But now that CIRay is in the picture (it's not over, no matter how vociferously Ziva might argue to the contrary), he's more convinced than ever that his partner is not available. Never was. Never will be. She's just not really interested. It's time to move on.

He understands EJ. She's easy to be with. Or, at least... she _was_.

Tony does not like to be questioned. He doesn't like having his movements monitored. He doesn't appreciate receiving 25 text messages per hour. He doesn't like the way his cologne, his team - his _friends _- are criticized. And he doesn't like having food stolen right out of his hand. He's astonished at how clingy and annoying she has become, and he's especially blown away by the speed of the transformation.

He's pissed that Gibbs was right about Rule # 12, after all.

Tony's powers of observation are legendary, and they serve him well. He notices that when EJ Barrett is transferred to NCIS Headquarters, all the latex forensic gloves are quietly replaced with neoprene equivalents. He notices the epi-pen she keeps in the drawer of the desk, and the one she has tucked away in that little compartment in her purse. He notices how she never uses a mouse pad at the computer. And how she always brings her own birth control when she spends the night with him.

He wonders casually if EJ has a male body waiting for her at every port, just like the P2P killer.

* * *

><p>Tony is the focus of everyone's attention as he strides into the bullpen the next morning. Abby hovers, like a hummingbird seeking nectar from a flower. McGee gets up from his desk, his face full of questions. Ziva raises an eyebrow as she lifts her head from her monitor. Tony nods back, wearing the most sombre and serious expression he can muster under the circumstances. Gibbs strides in amongst them, coffee in hand, and glances over the partition at an empty desk.<p>

"Agent Barrett died last night. You know anything about that, DiNozzo?"

Tony shrugs. "Latex allergy, Boss. Who knew?"


End file.
